Sunday, October 28, 2012

This is actually an assignment for a class, I had to write a short story (a really short story) inspired by a poem by Billy
Collins, I chose his poem: ‘The Dead’ Hope you enjoy it, or at least are amused by it.

Trevor woke up from a white flash of light, his body
numb, his head and back sore. He tried to sit up, but couldn't, his body felt too
stiff. He realized that he was lying on
the floor of a forest of bamboo trees, which were closely knit together. The
sun streamed through the gaps of the trees in a green hued light. Trevor didn't know where he was nor did he remember how he got here. A shadow of a man peered over him, blocking his
vision of the sun, and interrupted his troubled thoughts. Trevor couldn't make
out the man’s identity for his face was shadowed, he opened his mouth to ask
the man who he was, but before he could the man spoke in a voice like Morgan
Freeman saying,

“No kid you aren't waking up from a long dream, you’re
dead…dead as a doorknob. Now this may come as a shock to you, but you’ll get
over it, I know you’re young (and you young people like to think that you’re
going to live forever) but, jumping off that bridge into that fast current of
water was just stupid, and I don’t mind telling you.”

Trevor blinked, his eyes wide like that of a deer in
headlights, “You mean….”

“No, you’re not in heaven, but you’re not hell either, you’re
in the waiting area…the big man has a lot of people to talk with before he can
see you about your fate, so while you wait, you get to enjoy this luxurious
forest where you can “relax” for a bit. We
have other things we have to discuss, but first would you please get up, you’re
dead not paralyzed so stop being a slug on leaf, get up!”

The man lifted Trevor to his feet, whose mind was
spinning with questions. When he was able to see the man’s face, Trevor saw that
it was transparent, but every time the man moved or changed his expression a
flicker of color flashed across it; and his eyes weren’t just one, but rather
all the colors of the rainbow. He wore a
white suit, a white fedora, and a blue tie.

“Are you an angel?” Trevor asked.

The man laughed loudly, “You could say that, I like to
call myself the Boddia.”

“Well Boddia, I guess the polite thing to say would be
that it’s nice to meet you, I just wish that it was under other circumstances.
What happens now? Do I get to experience my childhood over again? Do I get to
visit my friends and family? Or do I get to view the contents of my life….can I
see my own funeral!?!” Trevor asked with a weird smile on his face.

Boddia looked at him, clearly not amused, “Seriously kid?
First, no, you’re the age you are and you’re staying that way. Second, what have
you got to see back down there, your dad sitting on the john complaining that
your obituary was crap, or you’re mom watching family made movies of your
childhood crying, wishing that you had been smarter; or would you rather see your
friends getting stoned on the bridge you smartly jumped off of “wishing you the
best up here in the sky.” Sorry, but the big man has a ‘no haunting’ policy. And
no, you missed your funeral; why would you want to see yourself cold and dead,
stuffed in a box anyway? No, what happens next is we go on a long walk, you get
to ask me all sorts of questions, which I may or may not answer; then I’m going
to take you to the lake for the “gathering” where you will meet others who are
deceased just like you, you can talk with them all you want, about anything you
want, hear their stories, hopefully learn from them. Some are really quite
marvelous, most are very tragic, sounds boring to you I’m sure, but you never
know who you might just meet. I remember meeting all kinds of people, no story
is alike and not every life amounted to anything, but you will learn something,
I promise.

So
with that, Trevor followed Boddia through the bamboo trees, and after some
time, they came to a clearing where there lay a beautiful lake, and surrounding
the water’s edge were a group of people, talking with one another. Trevor took a deep breath, and as he did he thought,
guess the dead really don’t just sit
around watching the living, nor care to, for their journey of life ended on
earth, and now they begin a new journey of death in the land of waiting.

Friday, October 19, 2012

First off, lets talk about what a sonnet is, a sonnet is merely just a structured poem made up of 14 lines in Iambic Pentameter (basically meaning it has a rhythm). It also has a rhyming scheme (or pattern) for example: aa bb cc dd ee ff gg, but the most commonly used pattern is: abab cdcd efef gg. My poem 'Nightmare,' for example, could have been a sonnet, however it has 20 lines. If it had 16, it could have been excepted as a sonnet, but really technical people (whose lives revolve around this stuff) would have argued, until the cows came home, that no it is not at "true" sonnet. So here it is, my "true" sonnet:

About Me

I am a twenty something college graduate, who needed an outlet for her writing ambitions many years ago. Thus I started a blog, which ignited my love for writing even more, making it more and more addicting as I go on. Last thing I can say about myself is that I am a quirky person, but I love all kinds of people (and the stranger, the better) and the most important thing about me is that I love Jesus.